


Inhale

by dance_across



Category: due South
Genre: Episode Related, Gunplay, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Power Play, Steel-Toed Boots, Submissive Ray
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-02
Updated: 2016-12-02
Packaged: 2018-09-03 18:29:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,882
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8725555
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dance_across/pseuds/dance_across
Summary: One sense at a time, Ray descends.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Lark_in_Ink](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lark_in_Ink/gifts).



> Thank you, Lark_in_Ink, for the best prompt that has ever landed in my inbox. I hope you enjoy the fic!
> 
> Thank you, [airspaniel](http://archiveofourown.org/users/airspaniel/pseuds/airspaniel), for the beta and the evil ideas!

**1: Smell**

Earthy. That’s what it is. The guy Volpe, Vecchio’s contact, he smells _earthy_. Like one of those people who spends time hiking or camping or building fires or whatever. Except on purpose. Like someone bottled up all that camping and made it into a cologne and sprayed it on this guy.

And it isn’t bad or anything, not bad at all. But Ray inhales again, and that smell, it’s making something go _ping_ in the back of his head. A smell, a memory, a—

“Hey,” says Volpe. “Vecchio.”

For about half a second, Ray’s confused. Then he’s not anymore. He’s back on the case, he’s Vecchio-not-Kowalski, and he’s here to get information, not sniff his contact’s pits. 

Volpe’s approaching faster than Ray would like. Straight down the middle of the alley, bald brown head shining like a damn beacon, hot in a macho kinda way, brick walls framing his leather-covered shoulders like a movie poster.

“That’s me,” says Ray.

A grin spreads over the guy’s face. “You sure about that?” He’s standing real close now, all up in Ray’s personal space. Ray doesn’t take the bait, obviously. Doesn’t step back.

That earthy smell is all around him.

“Ray Vecchio, in the flesh,” says Ray. “Although I recently got word you been saying otherwise. You been telling people I ain’t who I am no more.”

“That so?” asks Volpe. He gives Ray a once-over, and it sends a shiver up Ray’s spine. Too close. He’s standing too close. “Come to think of it, you _do_ have a lot more hair than the last time I saw you.”

“What can I say. Rogaine works wonders. You should try it.”

Volpe laughs. “That why you got me out here? Want me to spread the word that it’s just hair products?” He moves even closer. They’re almost chest-to-chest now. “What about the rest, huh? What do I say about that? Face transplant?”

His earrings glint in the late-afternoon light. His eyes do, too, and there’s something familiar about it all. But Ray can’t poke that thought right now. No time. Now, more than ever, Ray’s gotta play it cool.

“You tell your boys anything you want, Volpe,” says Ray. “I didn’t call you up for that.”

“Then what?” Volpe’s still wearing that grin, three parts dangerous and two parts secretive, and his cologne, that _smell_ —

Ray shrugs widely. “Just wanted to put a face to the name that’s all over my files.”

“Files, the fuck? Vecchio said nothing goes on the record—”

“My _unofficial_ files,” Ray interrupts loudly. “When _I_ said nothing on the record, _I_ meant it. We’re good, Volpe. We’re good. Just one question, okay?”

“Payment first,” says Volpe.

Shit. Right. Ray should’ve thought of that. CIs always have some kind of payment agreement. Even the unofficial ones. This is the rookiest of rookie mistakes.

“No dice,” says Ray, calm as ever, thinking fast. “I’m paying you in not punching you in the head for spreading Vecchio-being-gone rumors without my say-so.”

Volpe’s smile widens and, too late, Ray realizes his second mistake. The rumors could be a problem for Ray, for _both_ Rays, and he basically just admitted it. He just admitted Volpe’s got power over him.

“Suuuuure,” says Volpe. “You got it, _Vecchio_.”

Ray doesn’t let himself get angry. He can’t afford to, not now. “Just one question. Then we’re doneski.”

“Doneski,” says Volpe. “You get surgery to take the Italian outta you, too?”

“Spa _ghe_ tti,” Ray says, in his shittiest Jersey-Italian accent. “Pasta fa _zool_. Mamma _mi_ a. I’m Italian, you’re Italian too for all I care, now tell me why you never got put on the books as a real CI, huh?”

“That’s your question?”

“That’s my question.”

“Well, that’s easy.” Volpe’s grin is back now. “Keeping it off the books? That was his call—sorry, _your_ call. Not mine. I just didn’t argue.”

Huh. That’s an interesting twist, no doubt about it. Did Vecchio have something shady going on, something that involved Volpe? Or did he just want his own private CI that nobody else could touch? Ray adds it to the long list of things he’ll ask Vecchio, if he ever gets the chance.

Out loud, he just goes, “Yeah, if you say so.”

“That it?” Volpe asks. “We doneski?”

Ray can’t tell if it’s a joke or a dig, but either way, he laughs. “You’re a shithead, Volpe. Now scram.”

“See you around, Kowalski.”

And then Volpe turns around and heads off down the alley again, taking that earthy smell with him, and it takes Ray too long—way too long, like twenty full seconds of Volpe walking away too long—for that last word to sink in.

Kowalski. 

Volpe knows who he is.

What else does he know?

But before he can think too hard about that, a second thought interrupts the first one. No, not a thought. A smell. A memory.

A bar. The kind that turned into more of a club when it was late enough. Ray can’t remember the name of it, but it’s one of about six or seven places that he hit up pretty often after the split with the Stella. Sometimes for a drink, sometimes for a fuck, sometimes women, sometimes men. This place, though, this _particular_ place, it was mostly men.

Older guys, younger guys, flannel and leather and denim and everything else. Ray would line his eyes and put on something tight, and he’d go out and cozy up to someone pretty, and he’d get off before the night was done. And always, over there in the corner, surrounded by cronies and that earthy smell, always there was that one macho-hot bald guy that Ray could never get close enough to hit on.

Earrings glinting in the dim light of the bar. Eyes glinting, too.

Ray heads for his car and drives home as fast as he can. He needs a cold shower, and he needs it _now_.

 

**2: Sight**

Second time Ray calls Volpe, he probably should’ve known it was a bad idea. His head’s all muddled from meeting his new partner, that Mountie, who’s about as official at being a partner as Volpe is at being a CI. Full of unofficial relationships, that’s what his new life is. Full of unofficial everything and full of way-too-hot guys.

That Mountie and his chiseled fucking cheekbones. Jesus Christ.

Anyway, so, Volpe’s talking and talking, answering all the questions Ray’s asking about that kid Jimmy Junior, the one who’s been trying to get his very own little drug ring off the ground, pissing off the cops and the gangs all at the same time. If Ray takes him down, it’s good for everyone, including Volpe. Especially good for the kid himself, at least in the long run.

Ray’s mouth and his brain are on autopilot, asking questions and filing the answers away for later. But his eyes are working overtime. His eyes are digging into every single inch of Volpe’s skin. Medium brown, the kind of shade that probably looks golden in sunlight. Clean and unlined—the guy’s probably younger than Ray’s been assuming, maybe even younger than Ray himself. Not by a lot, though. You don’t carry yourself the way Volpe does without a few years on you.

He’s got the kind of goatee that Ray grew in college and immediately shaved off because it looked stupid on him. And those earrings. What the hell kind of guy can wear a pair of hoop earrings and still look like he could kick your ass? Not Ray, that’s for damn sure. But Volpe’s pulling it off.

And his eyelashes are—

“—staring at me.”

Ray’s brain falls right out of autopilot mode. Guilt descends fast. He blinks. “What?”

“I said, you’re staring at me.” Volpe’s eyes narrow. “And I gotta tell you, Vecchio, getting stared at by cops? Ain’t one of my favorite pastimes.”

“Yeah, no, didn’t mean anything by it,” says Ray, because apparently he’s completely forgotten how to play this game. How to be cool.

And of course, Volpe pounces: “Sure you did.”

Ray’s mouth goes dry. “Look, buddy, I’m just here for the intel, which, by the way, thanks for that. But I gotta get going. Ciao! See? Italian as they come. Ha.”

“Not so fast,” says Volpe, before Ray’s feet can even start to carry him away.

Ray raises his eyebrows. It’s way too late to recover his cool, but that sure doesn’t stop him from trying.

“You owe me.” Volpe holds out one hand, skimming his thumb over the tips of his other fingers. The universal sign for cash.

Which, of course, Ray forgot. Again. Besides a couple stray singles in his wallet, he’s got nothing. Stupid distracting Mountie and his stupid _yes, very much so_ and his stupid, _stupid_ cheekbones.

Stupid Ray, letting himself get distracted.

“Next time,” he tells Volpe, keeping his voice even as anything, like he planned this. Like any cop in his right mind would ever _plan_ on stiffing a CI.

“Seems to me I gave you what you asked for _and_ let you stare at me,” says Volpe. “Seems to me next time’s too long for me to wait.”

“Well, I ain’t got any cash,” Ray says. “So, what, you want to wait around while I find an ATM—”

“Take your dick out,” says Volpe.

Ray blinks. This is… not what he expected. Actually, it’s so far from what he expected that, as the seconds tick by, he’s more and more sure he heard wrong.

“What was that?”

“You heard me,” says Volpe. He keeps standing where he’s standing, just a couple feet from Ray, and his face doesn’t give anything away. “Take your dick out.”

Ray’s lips curve into a smile: the kind of smile that’s also kind of a grimace. His cock twitches in his jeans, which is how Ray realizes that there’s something real interesting about this idea and, and, and what the _fuck_ is going on.

He tries, again, to keep his voice cool: “You want me to pay you by fucking you? That it, Volpe?”

Volpe doesn’t look surprised by the question, which just figures, doesn’t it. All he says is, “You stare at me, I stare at you. See how this works?”

“Ain’t like I stared at _your_ dick,” mutters Ray.

“No, but you wanted to,” says Volpe, and there’s that grin again. Dangerous, secretive. And hungry. More hungry than anything else. “Unless you don’t remember the way you used to check me out at Murphy’s.”

Murphy’s. That was the name of the bar. Figures, just _figures_ that Volpe would remember when Ray couldn’t.

“Difference between us, though?” Volpe continues, moving closer. “I got the balls to go after what I want. Now take your dick out, or you owe me triple next time you call.”

Triple’s nothing. Ray could do triple. He’s got plenty of cash to work with while he’s playing Vecchio, and they aren’t even making him be specific about how he spends it. He could promise Volpe quadruple, quintuple, and still walk away today with some dignity left. He could, and probably he should.

But his hand’s already on his fly.

“Thought so,” says Volpe, and watches.

Ray undoes the button and pulls the zipper down. Underneath, his cock’s already mostly hard, and Ray reaches into his shorts and pulls it out.

“Huh,” says Volpe. He doesn’t look impressed, he doesn’t look unimpressed. He just looks.

“What?” demands Ray, cheeks flaming. There’s no _mostly_ now. His cock’s all the way hard. No blood left in his brain at all.

“Nothing,” Volpe answers, and keeps on looking. Doesn’t get down on his knees. Doesn’t go in for a grope. Doesn’t even tell Ray to jerk himself off.

Although, wait, why the fuck is Ray waiting for instructions? Fuck that. Ray reaches down and fists his cock, giving himself a few pumps. Chin jutting out at Volpe like a challenge, hand lingering on his cock like he’s not even a little bit embarrassed, he asks, “That what you want? A show? You get off on watching?”

But Volpe’s only answer is another question: “Did I say you could do that?”

Ray’s hand falls away before his brain can even catch up.

Satisfied, Volpe goes back to looking at him. Flushed skin, curved shaft, cut head. A drop of fluid beading at the tip. Ray wonders why the fuck he dropped his hand so quickly. What is _wrong_ with him?

He also wonders, for the first time ever, whether you can come just from the feeling of being looked at.

Finally, he can’t take the quiet anymore.

“Oh, I get it. This is how you make sure I’m really Vecchio, right?” asks Ray. “Measure our dicks, make sure they match up?”

This, finally, makes Volpe look up at Ray’s face again. He smirks. “The real Vecchio paid me in _cash_.”

And he turns and walks away, leaving Ray with a hard-on so painful that it’s kind of a miracle he makes it all the way home.

 

**3: Hearing**

A few days after, it’s not Ray who calls. It’s Volpe. He doesn’t introduce himself, and he doesn’t want to set up a meeting. He’s just got two questions.

The first, in a voice that’s almost a purr: “I’m looking for the guy with the black eyeliner and the shitty hair, from Murphy’s, couple years back. This him?”

Ray’s heart, which up to this moment was focused squarely on a red uniform and a funny hat and a pair of brightly-polished boots, leaps into his throat and starts beating a hundred miles an hour.

“Yeah,” says Ray. He sneaks a look around just to make sure the Mountie’s not anywhere nearby. He isn’t, but Frannie’s not too far away, and Ray knows she pays attention to anything that might be worthy of gossip. If she only knew. He keeps his voice calm as he can. “Yeah, this is him.”

Then comes the second question: “You gonna bring me cash next time?”

Ray can hear the hungry smile behind the voice. He gets a flash, way too vivid, of standing in an alley with his cock exposed. Of being looked at.

He closes his eyes. He thinks. He tries to ignore the sudden tension in his body, brought out just by the sound of Volpe’s voice. He _was_ planning on bringing cash, obviously. Bringing cash would mean no more being stared at. No more power plays.

His brain wants him to say yes. Cash. Yes. Good idea, bringing cash.

His mouth says, “Guess you’ll just have to wait and see.”

Volpe laughs low and hangs up.

 

**4: Taste**

It’s not even a week before Ray finds an excuse to call Volpe again. He pretends he needs Volpe’s take on that lawyer who went up against Stella in that self-defense case last year. Volpe knows it’s bullshit, and Ray knows Volpe knows it’s bullshit, and Volpe knows _Ray_ knows Volpe knows, and on and on. Still, Ray gets what he wants. Volpe agrees to meet.

“But not the same place,” Volpe says. “People been sniffing around that alley. Guys I don’t know. Gotta be somewhere else.”

“What kinda somewhere else?” asks Ray.

“You’re the cop. That makes it your call, right?” Volpe’s tone is low and mocking, almost sing-song.

Ray’s gotta have some snappy comeback for that, somewhere in that brain of his. But nothing comes. He swallows. He stays quiet.

Finally, Volpe says, “How about Murphy’s?”

Yeah, Ray really shoulda seen that coming.

“Half an hour,” he replies.

“Don’t forget to bring me cash this time,” Volpe says, and hangs up.

Ray checks his wallet. A fiver, two singles, and way too much change.

He doesn’t stop at the ATM on the way to the bar.

-

Place is dingier than he remembers. Sadder, too. Maybe the younger guys all found somewhere better to go, or maybe it’s just a weekday and it’s too early.

Volpe’s not there yet.

Ray goes up to the bar, slams down the fiver, orders a shot of Beam, tosses it down his throat. He’s just starting to regret not having enough cash for a second shot, but then, in comes Volpe.

Swagger and leather and shine, that’s what this guy is. A smile that’s probably crooked on purpose, those earrings, that earthy smell. Ray inhales that smell like it’s giving him life, and waits for Volpe to see him.

But Volpe looks at the bartender, not at Ray.

“Heyyy, V, long time no see,” says the bartender, loud and hearty, throwing his arms open like a cartoon dad or something.

“Ian, my man.” Volpe moves closer to the bar, closer to Ray, still not looking. He and Ian the Bartender grasp hands over the garnishes. “What’s doing tonight?”

Ian pours a shot—some kind of tequila, Ray’s pretty sure, and anyway something way fancier than Beam—and slides it over to Volpe. Volpe takes it, and then, finally, he looks at Ray. Sidelong, one eyebrow raised, sending a shiver straight down to Ray’s cock. “You want one?”

Tequila on top of whiskey. What could go wrong?

“I, uh—”

“A shot for my friend Vecchio,” says Volpe, slinging an arm around Ray’s shoulders. “Raymond Vecchio. He’s Italian too, you know that?”

 _Too_? Huh. Ray’s been figuring this whole time that the guy’s Hispanic, maybe Indian, who knows. But then there’s that last name. Come to think of it, maybe he does have some Italian in him.

“Never would’ve guessed,” Ian replies blandly, and pours Ray a shot.

Volpe raises his glass. Ray clinks. They shoot.

As Ray’s head tries to figure out what to do with all that liquor, all at once, Volpe leans over the bar. “Hey, Ian. Pool room open?”

God, yeah, Ray remembers that room. Pool table in the middle till about eleven at night, then it got shoved over to the side and the music got louder and all the little rainbow boys started showing up and dancing and Ray was right in the middle of it all.

“Not yet,” says Ian. “Slow night, plus my bar back called out. And Jessa doesn’t show up for another hour.”

Volpe nods. “But you’ll still let me in, ain’t that right?”

Annoyance flickers across Ian’s face, but it’s gone in less than a second. “Sure thing, man. Whatever you need.”

“And hey, how about you don’t let anybody back there for a little while? Me and Vecchio here, we got some business to discuss.”

Ray thinks of his flimsy excuse for calling. His empty wallet. His mouth, buzzing from the tequila. Business. Sure.

Ian agrees. Volpe puts one hand on Ray’s shoulder and steers him toward the back room. Opens the door, closes it behind him, flicks on the light. And yeah, there’s that grubby pool table, right in the middle. Nobody even bothered putting any of the balls away last time there was a game. There’s a couple still in the pockets, a couple on the table. A cue lying on the green, like someone threw it there and left it.

Ray almost got laid on that pool table, once. He wonders if tonight’s the night it’s finally gonna happen.

“So,” says Volpe.

Ray turns around. Gets up in Volpe’s face before Volpe gets the chance to do the same thing. “So.”

Volpe grins. “So you wanna cut the shit, or you wanna talk about that lawyer?”

“What lawyer?” Ray asks innocently.

“The one you called about.”

“Ohh, did I call you? Is that what I did?”

Something changes in Volpe’s face. Oh, yeah, he gets it now. He moves even closer to Ray. Chest almost touching chest. “Is this a _game_ to you, Vecchio?”

“I could ask you the same thing.”

“Listen, buddy.” Volpe’s breath is hot on Ray’s face now. “My time is valuable, you got that?” Ray could kiss him, if he wanted, he was that close. “You get it into your head that you can waste my time?” But kissing’s not what Ray wants. That’s not what any of this is about. “Then you better be ready to pay up.”

“Oh sure, I’m ready.” Ray reaches for his back pocket and takes his wallet out. Takes out the bills inside. He holds them out to Volpe, who looks confused. Until he sees what they are.

Two singles.

Worthless.

Volpe throws the bills to the floor, and his _face_ —Ray’s jeans are seriously tight now—his face is doing its usual stoic thing, except those eyes of his are _gleaming_. He looks like a man who just hit the jackpot.

“Get on your knees, Vecchio,” Volpe says.

“Oh yeah?” says Ray. “What, you not gonna make me take my cock out first? Not gonna stand there like some idiot loser and _stare_ at it and _wish_ yours was half as big—”

Volpe shoves Ray’s shoulders, hard enough to send him stumbling back. “I said on your knees, you piece of shit.”

Ray grins, dizzy from the shove. From the anticipation of another one. “How about you make me?”

That’s when Volpe pulls his gun. Aims it straight at Ray.

“I’m not gonna tell you again.”

Every cop instinct Ray has starts shouting at him: disarm, subdue, arrest. But Ray can barely hear it over the blood pounding in his ears, racing down, down, down.

He drops to his knees.

Volpe approaches, real slow. He’s got murder in his eyes, but the safety’s still on and it looks like it’s staying that way. Nah, Volpe’s not gonna shoot. He just wants Ray to get the full view. Stare down the barrel. Get a little afraid.

And maybe Ray _is_ a little afraid. Maybe that’s why he’s about two seconds away from jizzing his pants.

“You’re a mouthy little fucker, aren’t you?” Volpe says.

“You love it,” Ray replies.

“Nah,” says Volpe. “You wanna know the truth? Truth is, it’s pretty annoying. I been thinking this whole time about the best way to shut you up.”

“Oh, wait, wait, I know this one,” says Ray, grinning up at the gun. Then at the scowling face behind it. “You stick your cock in my mouth and I suck you off and _that_ shuts me up. Right? Points for originality, Volpe, because I _never_ heard that one before.”

For the first time since shutting the door to the pool room, Volpe smiles. Real long, real slow, and, god, Ray’s really hoping this is when he drops the gun and finally, finally lets Ray get a _taste_ of—

“As if I’d ever let that dirty cop mouth of yours anywhere near my junk,” says Volpe.

Okay. Now Ray’s actually confused.

“This is Sofia,” says Volpe, nodding down at the gun. The very same gun that’s pointed right between Ray’s eyes. “She’s Italian too, you see? You’re gonna suck her off instead.”

Oh.

 _Oh_.

Yeah, Ray hasn’t ever—

He never even _thought_ of—

How’s he supposed to…?

“Whatsa matter, Vecchio?” says Volpe, nudging the barrel toward Ray’s lips. “She too big for you?”

“She registered?” Ray counters, smirking.

“Mouthy,” says Volpe. “Stop wasting my time.”

The gun. Ray’s lips. There’s only three or four inches between them. Ray closes his eyes, leans forward, and touches his lips to Sofia’s silver barrel.

“Yeah,” Volpe whispers. “Oh, yeah.”

Truth is, the gun’s barrel isn’t that big. Definitely not as big as most of the cocks Ray’s sucked, and his mouth fits around her easily. But there’s no flesh, no skin, no _give_. No heat. Just the cold taste of metal and the little voice in the back of his head going, _Is it loaded? Why didn’t you check, dumb shit? You could die. Is this how you wanna die?_

Weirdly, the voice just makes Ray want it more.

He opens his eyes and pulls away, just long enough to wet his lips again. Sofia glistens in front of him, wet with saliva, and Ray goes in again.

This time, he leads with his tongue. He circles the barrel, all delicate, feeling for aberrations in the metal. There are none. She’s a perfect specimen.

He pokes his tongue inside. Angles his head back just enough that Volpe can see. And sure enough, he’s rewarded with a grunt. It might be a cut-off word, it might just be one of those sounds, but there’s definitely sex in it, and that’s good, that’s greatness, that’s _proof_ that Ray’s not the only one getting off here.

He licks. Inside, around the edges again, up the barrel. He imagines it’s—well, okay, obviously he imagines it’s a cock, because who wouldn’t? It’s Volpe’s cock.

Except. No. It’s not Volpe’s.

What he’s really picturing is an apple-red tunic, unbuttoned and parted. Dark blue poofy pants, striped down the sides, unzipped down the front. Maybe that Stetson on the floor somewhere nearby, and a voice that’s probably going “Oh my goodness gracious” or something like that, and—

“Ow, fuck,” says Ray, reeling back as his teeth clang against metal. Christ, that hurts.

“Did I tell you to stop?” Volpe asks, and cuffs Ray on the side of the head.

“Uh, no,” says Ray woozily. Concentrate. He’s gotta concentrate. And what was the Mountie doing in his head like that, anyway?

“What’d you say?” Volpe snaps.

Ray looks up again. Tries to muster some of the smirk he had before. “I said _no_ Mister Volpe _Sir_.”

He’s expecting Volpe to have some kind of asshole comment, but, weirdly, there’s nothing. He just narrows his eyes and juts his chin like a silent _so keep going_ —and that’s when Ray spots it. Under Volpe’s open jacket. He’s bulging just as much as Ray is. Maybe he’s barely keeping himself together, just like Ray—and maybe if Ray keeps going, maybe if he’s good enough, _maybe_ —

He dives for Sofia again. Lips working. Tongue working. He moans and he licks and he sucks and he puts on a show and makes sure Volpe can see all of it, and he keeps going and going until:

“ _Stop_.”

Ray looks up. He blinks. Sits back on his heels.

His mouth tastes like metal. And tequila.

He’s practically outside himself with want, by now. But he makes himself leer up at Volpe, because that’s what got him here, right? _Mouthy little fucker_. That’s what Volpe wants from him, so that’s what he has to be.

Volpe pulls out a handkerchief and carefully, lovingly, wipes Sofia down.

“Was it good for you?” Ray says. “Me, I’d give it a four out of ten. Four and a half, tops.”

Volpe doesn’t answer, and Ray waits, so good, so patient, for Volpe to unzip himself, to let Ray have a real taste. Volpe tucks Sofia away. Ray keeps waiting.

Volpe tilts his head as he finally, _finally_ looks back down at Ray. First his face. Then lower. He steps closer. Closer. Then he puts a hand on his fly and, oh, yeah, here it comes. Volpe unbuttons. Unzips. Just far enough that Ray can see the navy blue of his underwear. Ray waits.

But instead of pulling himself out, Volpe moves one foot between Ray’s legs, nudging his knees apart. Presses the toe of his boot against Ray’s zipper. Ray tries to bite back a moan at the pressure, and fails miserably.

“Take out your dick,” says Volpe smoothly, and Ray almost cries with relief as he moves to stand up. But Volpe presses his boot into Ray’s groin again, throwing him off balance. “Did I say you could get up?”

“I—”

“Shut up.”

Ray shuts up. Which is fine, because saying words isn’t really a thing he feels like he could be good at right now. Not when Volpe’s boot is putting _just enough pressure_ , and—

“I said take out your dick, Kowalski,” says Volpe.

Ray looks at Volpe’s open fly. At the unmistakable bulge under that navy blue fabric. “You first,” he manages to say.

Volpe’s boot nudges, hard enough to make Ray yelp.

“Don’t make me tell you again,” says Volpe.

Ray’s fingers fumble, and it’s awkward with the position he’s in, but he manages it. He takes out his cock and his balls, and he’s throbbing, his whole goddamn body is throbbing, and he looks up, waiting to be told what to do next.

Volpe’s boot moves forward again, steel toe nudging at Ray’s balls, cold against the heat of his flesh. Nudging, then pressing, then pressing _harder_ , and then—and _then_ Volpe’s left hand reaches into his underwear. Pulls out his erect cock.

Volpe isn’t longer than Ray, but he’s definitely fatter. He’s cut, and he’s leaking just a little, and Ray whimpers. He wants it. He wants to taste. To please. To show Volpe just how good he is, how talented, how worthy—

“What?” Volpe smirks, the smug bastard. “Oh, fuck’s sake, you actually think I’m gonna let you suck me off? Cop bastard. I already told you, it’s never gonna happen.”

Ray meets Volpe’s eyes. There’s a challenge there. And Ray, right now, with cold steel digging into his flesh and hot desire singing through his veins, has never been more ready for a challenge.

He leans forward, mouth open, already tasting the salty fluid on his tongue, mingling with the metal and the tequila—but a hand on his forehead stops him, inches away. Volpe’s hand. Fingers fist in his hair, gripping tight and jerking his head back.

Ray sucks in a breath as his cock jumps. The toe of Volpe’s boot digs harder, harder into his balls and then… and then nothing. Volpe’s got both feet on the floor now, and Ray’s left with nothing but that hand in his hair and the memory of steel.

“Fuck you,” says Ray. Sweat beads on his forehead, and his every muscle is clenched with trying not to come. Not yet. Not yet. He knows he’s not allowed, and so he won’t.

Volpe leans down, pulling Ray’s head back so they’re almost face to face. “You want this, Kowalski?” One hand still in Ray’s hair, Volpe uses the other to fist his cock and pump it once, twice. “You gotta try harder.”

Ray bucks against the hand holding his head in place, and Volpe almost loses his grip, but doesn’t. He laughs and grips harder. With both hands this time. So Ray stops trying to shake him off and starts trying to _reach_. Mouth open, tongue out, he strains forward, forward, until he’s as close as he can get to his prize. Maybe five inches to go. Maybe six.

And that’s when Volpe starts letting him win. Starts letting him get closer, closer. “Good, yeah, good,” he says, and Ray can smell the musk of him now. “Show me how much you want it.”

Ray whimpers. He moans. He reaches. He’s almost there, two inches, one inch—

Volpe steps away, laughing as he lets go of Ray’s head. Ray almost loses his balance, but catches himself—just in time to see Volpe tucking his cock away again, all neat, all proper. Flesh inside underwear, zipper up, button done.

“But,” says Ray.

“But nothing. I told you, never gonna happen.” Volpe steps between Ray’s legs again, lifting his boot off the floor, just barely touching his skin this time. Brushing a painfully soft line up the shaft of Ray’s cock, flicking away at the head. 

Ray waits, breathless, for the boot to come back. Maybe with increased pressure. Maybe pain. Maybe a kick. He’s never been kicked before. He’s got no idea if he’d even like it. But right here, right now, he’s ready to find out. He waits. He waits.

Volpe steps away. “Although, hey, who knows? You keep asking, maybe I’ll change my mind.” He pats his jeans pocket like he wants to make sure his wallet is there. Like he’s getting ready to go. “So whaddya say, Kowalski? Gonna keep asking? Pretty please with a cherry on top?”

“Please,” Ray says. “Come on. Come on, please.”

Volpe shrugs, a wicked grin contorting his features. “Nah. Maybe next time. I’m late for a meeting.”

Like hell he is. Ray’s body is a taut string, about to snap. He’s kneeling, he’s displaying himself like a piece of meat, he’s letting this guy touch him with his _boot_. He sucked a _gun_ off for this dickhead, and now, what, he’s just gonna leave?

Ray wants to scream all this. His mind is raging with it. But the wires in his brain are so frayed that all he can manage is a frail, repeated, “Fuck you.”

“In your dreams.” Volpe smirks. “Jesus, you just gonna keep sitting there and waiting for me to tell you what to do?”

Well, yeah. That’s exactly Ray’s plan. But if Volpe wants to be an asshole about this, then fine, Ray can be an asshole too. No more following these unspoken rules. No more waiting. He reaches for himself, sparks crackling across his skin as he strokes once, then twice, then looks up at Volpe to see if he’ll do anything about it. If, maybe, he’ll step in and take charge again.

But Volpe just watches him for a second, then smiles and turns away. He walks _away_ , which, what the _hell_. Volpe’s walking away, and he throws the door open, and—

“Pool room’s free if anyone wants to play,” he calls out into the bar.

Then there are _footsteps_. Jesus _fuck._

Ray barely has time to tuck in and zip up and get to his feet again before someone comes in. Just some random guy. He heads for the table, but stops short when he sees Ray.

“Hey, sorry, you playing?” says the new guy, obviously confused.

“Uh, no,” Ray manages. “I was just, uh…”

He practically runs for the bar. But Volpe’s already gone.

The bartender, what’s his face, Ian, catches Ray’s eye. “You okay, man?”

Obviously he’s not. And he doesn’t look it, either. Ray’s had enough sex in front of enough mirrors to know that. He looks flushed and sick and probably seven shades of stupid.

“Yeah. Sure. I. Uh.”

“Another shot?” Ian offers.

Ray shakes his head. “Just, uh, just the men’s.”

Ian gestures, and Ray runs. Locks himself in a stall. And right there, surrounded by crude graffiti in a cramped little room that smells like stale piss and cheap cologne and a thousand unwashed armpits, Ray Kowalski has the best orgasm of his entire life.

 

**5: Touch**

It’s not like Ray was expecting a formal dinner invitation or anything. Flowers, dancing, whatever. It’s just that he also didn’t expect Volpe to have one of his goddamn _cronies_ to call him for their next… whatever this thing is. But that’s what happens. Some goon calls, says _Is this Ray Vecchio, good, yeah, the boss wants to see you_ , then specifies that the boss is Mr. Volpe, then tells Ray a time (one hour from now) and a place (the same alley where they first met up) and Ray knows he’s supposed to show up and bring obedience instead of cash and, god, his cock’s already getting hard just thinking about it.

He’s gotta cancel on Fraser, but that’s no big deal. He does that all the time, and besides, Fraser’s boss is going out of town, which probably means a pile of extra work, so—

“Vecchio.”

And there’s Volpe, all leather and shades and _god_ that swagger, and Ray hangs up his phone.

“Volpe,” he says, and walks down the alley to meet him.

“So,” says Volpe, starting it off just like he started it off in the pool room last week.

“So,” says Ray.

Then Volpe gives him some stupid line about how maybe Ray’s wearing a wire, which is confusing as fuck right up till Ray realizes it’s just an excuse for a grope. Volpe bends down and starts at Ray’s shoes, works his way up, and— _yeah_ , there it is. Volpe grabs and squeezes and _that’s_ the touch Ray’s been waiting for.

It makes him bold.

He cops a feel right back. Yeah, this is gonna get real good, real fast.

But then Volpe says he wasn’t the one who called. And Ray knows _he_ didn’t call. Understanding passes between them, and they’re both instantly on high alert. And then—

 

**1: Smell**

It’s been minutes, or hours, or maybe even days since Volpe got shot dead, and Ray should be sleeping.

Except he can’t sleep. He’s got that earthy cologne in his nose and the feel of Volpe’s cock, hardening under denim, imprinted on his fingers. He’s got Volpe’s “So?” in his ears and those little hoop earrings dancing behind his eyelids. He’s got the taste of gunmetal in his mouth. Metal and tequila and another untasted prize, only inches away.

Plus there’s some tourist family taking up the Consulate’s bedrooms, which means he got stuck downstairs, so he can hear Fraser puttering around in the next room, and the couch is comfortable but not _that_ comfortable, and he’s sure he didn’t shoot Volpe but he’s not _sure_ sure.

He could have shot him. Right? He could’ve stuck his own piece in Volpe’s mouth, told him to suck it off like Ray sucked Sofia, and _boom_. Right? But there are so many reasons why that’s not what happened, starting with those sketchy phone calls, ending with how Volpe would never be the one who got on his knees during a meeting. That’s Ray’s job.

Well, it _was_ Ray’s job. Until.

“Ray?”

Ray jerks upright at the sound of Fraser’s voice. Somehow, Fraser opened the damn door and got inside the room and practically all the way over to the couch, and Ray didn’t even notice. Some cop he is.

He blows out a sigh, sinking back against the soft couch cushions. “Yeah, buddy.”

“Can’t you sleep?” Fraser asks. Moonlight streams in through the window, or maybe a streetlight. Either way, it makes Fraser’s eyes all shiny. And he sounds real genuine. Real worried, that’s how Fraser sounds as he stands over Ray and looks him over. He’s got a bunch of shirts draped over one arm. Plaid flannel. Probably real soft. Probably he was about to go iron their collars or something.

“Been a rough couple days,” says Ray.

“I see,” says Fraser.

“No, you don’t _see_ ,” Ray sneers.

“Of course I do,” says Fraser, all calm and reassuring. “You’re worried you may have broken a law. Committed a crime. Killed a man. Were I in your shoes, I’d be feeling awfully out of sorts, too.”

“Out of sorts, sure,” Ray mutters.

Fraser pauses. “Is it more than that?”

Well, _obviously_ it’s more than that. There’s more to this case than Ray can ever tell anyone. The CI stuff and the off-the-books stuff and the oops-I-forgot-my-cash stuff, that all adds up to a picture that kinda wouldn’t be great for Ray’s image.

But that’s not even all of it. What’s keeping Ray up, it’s not the legal stuff. Or the image stuff. It’s way more selfish than that. So selfish that Ray wants to kick himself for even thinking it. The guy’s dead, and you don’t think about dead guys that way.

For a second, he actually thinks about telling Fraser. Not the details, not really telling him, but he thinks about saying something like, _Hey, Fraser, you see how you’re standing over me like that? You could tell me to get on the floor. Right now. I would. I’d slide down, right down to my knees, and I’d look up at you and wait, and—hey, you don’t happen to have a handgun around, do you? Maybe a pair of steel-toed boots?_

But the thought’s gone before it even has a chance to fully form. This is Fraser. Buttoned up and polite and, you know, _Canadian_. He wouldn’t get it. He just wouldn’t.

So all Ray says is, “It’s cold in here. I’m cold.”

Fraser nods. “I’ll get a blanket, it’ll just be a second—”

“I don’t mean blankets. I just need another layer up top.” Ray points to the shirts over Fraser’s arm. “Gimme one of those.”

Fraser looks down, then up again. “One of my shirts?”

“Yeah.”

“I’ve worn all of these recently, Ray, but I can fetch you a clean shirt if—”

“No, I said one of _those_.”

Fraser blinks, which, okay, fair enough. Ray wasn’t really planning on bossing Fraser around tonight. Or, you know, insisting on having a dirty shirt instead of a clean one.

“Please,” Ray adds, probably too late.

Fraser crinkles his forehead, but doesn’t argue. He selects a gray plaid and tosses it to Ray. “Will that suffice?”

Ray nods, and he’s real glad when Fraser doesn’t ask _why_ it suffices. Because Ray doesn’t really know. All he knows is he can’t sleep and this is the shirt he wanted.

“Well then,” says Fraser. “Good night, Ray. If there’s anything you need, please let me know.”

He nods again, and Fraser leaves. _Good night_ echoes softly through the room.

He puts on Fraser’s shirt. Then he takes it off and puts it on again, this time back-to-front, with the collar just inches away from his nose. The shirt smells like him. Like Fraser.

Ray closes his eyes and inhales.


End file.
